


language barriers

by celestixl



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Panic Attacks, i tagged it as jerejean anyways, jerejean if you squint, shrug emoji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestixl/pseuds/celestixl
Summary: Jean didn't speak the same language the USC Trojans exy team did.





	language barriers

**Author's Note:**

> i was supposed to be writing an essay? oh well

Jean didn't speak the same language the USC Trojans exy team did.

It wasn't that his English was lacking -- it wasn't. He barely even had an accent now.

What he didn't understand was this: The easy way they smiled at each across the room, across the quad, across the court. The playful teasing behind what could have been a biting remark. The encouragement hidden in every critique. This system of support, of friendship and love and understanding.

Even on the court, where they finally spoke a language Jean could understand, one he knew intimately -- even then. Even then there was something about the way they moved that was beyond his grasp.

Exy was the only thing worthwhile to Jean -- he lived and breathed it. But he knew he was just a piece. He was a just one cog in the clockwork of the team -- unimportant, replaceable. He knew only pain as the consequence of failure on the court. He was a machine, made of precision, unflinching, the racquet in his hand simply an extension of his arm -- as natural as breathing or walking.

The Trojans lacked that deadly exactness, the eerie uniformity and synchronicity of the Ravens. But -- there was something instinctive about connection stretching between them.

That was what Jean didn't understand.

On the court, he made impossible passes off of Jeremy's, danced with blurring footwork right through Hartley's offenses, passed the ball to Villegas who would aim point after deadly point into the goal right through Laila's weaker spots. But -- Crusoe would barely catch the ball, and suddenly Knox would be there, covering him, not taking possession, but receiving it from what could have been, but somehow wasn't, a fumbled pass. Aliya would be at his back one moment and across the court in the next instant, checking Hartley into the wall with alarming precision. The ball would have rebounded at an impossible angle, Villegas jumping impossibly high to get it in his net, his options now limited by the sheer impossibility of his save, and Crusoe would be ready for him, ready to take the ball. Alvarez would be smashed against the wall by a hard check, but her eyes would catch her girlfriend's as Laila blocked a shot, and Alvarez would be practically throwing herself in what seemed like the wrong direction -- and then the ball would simply. Be there.

And Jean -- sometimes he was part of it too, on the court. But only because he was trained to be, only because exy was so ingrained in the very fiber of his being and his survival. It was instinct, yes, but it wasn't the same instinct that drove them.

Sometimes, Jean felt like he was too different than them to be here; too hard, sharpened until the only thing left was unflinching loyalty to the game, without even a sliver of human left. Beaten down and formed by Riko’s abuses in more ways than he could count. 

He didn’t belong among this team, faces bathed in sunlight even when under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the gym, smiles bright and eyes full of life in the midst of anything and everything. 

Watching from his position as Jeremy teasingly egged Hartley on, rapid footwork driving the younger player towards frustration, Jean still couldn’t comprehend the easiness, the lightness of this court. 

When Hartley accidentally smacked Knox across the back of the head with his racquet -- hard -- momentarily paying more attention to Villegas jumping up and down on the other side of the walls than to his surroundings, Jean's first reaction was to school his face into nothingness, his expression settling into blankness and his fingers aching, same as they did before thunderstorms.

Riko wouldn't have stood for a mistake like that.

But Jeremy clutched at the back of his helmet dramatically, turned to Hartley's part stricken, part sheepish expression, and tackled him to the floor.

By the time Alvarez had joined the fray to grip Hartley in a headlock, Laila practically doubled over laughing at Hartley's outraged, yet defeated, expression, the skirmish entirely forgotten, Jean was already making his way off the court, stomach clenching and breathing shallowly, fingers too tight around his racquet. 

As he walked away from the court and his captain, there was still that faint feeling of terror in the pit of his stomach, the leftover impossibility of being alone. But he was only going to the locker rooms, Jean repeated to himself over and over, and practice was ending in five minutes anyways. He needed to stay -- his body pulled him back -- but he needed air more, he needed space away from the warmth and easiness and camaraderie that the USC Trojans spilled everywhere with so much abandon and so little care, as though it were the easiest thing in the world for everything to be okay, for a small mistake to be just that, a small mistake, as though every step on the court was a breath of fresh air, of living, instead of pure survival, as though you could love exy for what it was apart from everything-- 

Jean wasn’t sure when he had made it to the locker room, when exactly he had ended up sitting with his back against the cold metal of the lockers, knees pulled towards his chest, fingers still clenched painfully around his racquet, breath shallow and chest too tight. The edges of his vision blurred, eyes unfocused, and he let go of his racquet to grip his hands around his biceps instead, fingers digging into the muscle tightly as he tried to reel himself in, tried to pull himself under control before the rest of the team either noticed he was gone or made their way back to the locker room. 

He was supposed to be past this -- he was out, after all, free of that hell. But it seemed that no matter how much physical distance existed between Jean Moreau and the Ravens, his mind wouldn’t ever be far enough. 

The door to the locker room opened; Jean’s head shot up, frantic thoughts whirring against the edges of his brain again, a litany of _fuck they’re back I was supposed to have pulled myself together by now why couldn’t I pull myself together what is wrong with me what is wrong with me what is wrong with--_ and then Jeremy, alone, came into view. 

“Hey -- Jean, it’s just me, no one else is gonna come in right now, ok? ...Can I sit with you?” 

And Jean wanted to laugh -- Jeremy, his captain, asking if he could sit with Jean? A wheezing half-laugh choked itself from the confinement of Jean’s throat, and he nodded dumbly in the face of Jeremy’s concerned brown eyes. 

Jeremy sank quietly to the floor beside Jean, careful to keep a few inches between them. 

“I’m here for you, ok, can you breathe?” Jeremy said quietly, and Jean focused his eyes on the laces of Jeremy’s shoes, focused on the warmth of Jeremy’s overheated, sweaty body beside him, focused on the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above them, and nodded once as his breathing fell into a still shallow but steadier pattern. 

“I-” Jeremy started, then stopped, face thoughtful. “I know this is different from everything you’ve- you’ve known. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Jean’s voice was sharp, but he couldn’t tell where the trickle of hatred coiling through his blood was directed -- at himself, at Jeremy, at Riko. 

“No! No-- Jean, I don’t pity you. I just--” Jeremy, ever so good with pep talks, with gentle critique, with talking, paused again, hand scrubbing over his face in frustration. “I just hope you know that I’d never let anything like that happen to you again. You’re part of this team now, and while you’re here, I will never. Never. Let that happen again.” 

“I can take care of myself,” Jean snarled, lashing out again, the only way he seemed to know how in the face of this quiet and sincere honesty. 

Jeremy smiled slightly, the barest twitch of his lips upward. “I know that, Jean. But that doesn’t mean you have to do so alone anymore.”

There were a million things Jean could have said in reply, but instead he shut his mouth, let that idea wash over him, rolled it around on his tongue. He didn’t have that level of trust in him, in others, no matter how kind they were. But -- no one had extended that sentiment to him before. 

He didn’t reply. 

“Can I let the others in?” Jeremy asked, pulling one leg under him, ready to stand.

Jean felt like laughing again -- but this time, he didn’t. Only nodded. 

By the time the rest of the team trickled into the locker room to shower and change, Jean was back to his usual self, packing his gear up. 

But for once, instead of ignoring them, he let himself see the smiles, hear the post-practice comments and compliments.

**Author's Note:**

> so like when will i learn to end things
> 
> if this sucks pls tell me asap so i can delete it and pretend it never happened 
> 
> alsooo i’ve based jean’s panic attack on info found online and also partially on my own experience with anxiety, so please please tell me if i’ve gotten anything wrong, and i will change it!! 
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/reneewvlker) and [tumblr](http://reneewvlker.tumblr.com/)


End file.
